Exposed like in an open ward

Exposed like in an open ward
the washing machines lie bare in columns
I walk into the neighborhood scene
tugging my laundry beside me

Infants and toddlers sprinkle laughter
in between the white metal maze
— plop— I hear a baby’s butt hit ground
giggling at the sound of diaper on tile

A girl in a pink tutu prances
around her bell-shaped madre to stare
at a fellow— capped— red basketball shorts
draped idly— unloading his wash
then petting his son’s matted hair

— jib— As I push my comforter inside,
a tattooed couple bumps my elbow—
lost in their play-fighting they
jab their fists and arms in the air
buoying each other's taunts

I take my place in a plastic green chair next
to a mustache with bilateral yellow-stains—
he mumbles between his wife’s cackles
then leaves a sweaty zest
when he rises to check on the dryer

A professional wheels his cart,
consolidated with dress shirts
straight and narrow— jaja—
past the hispanic women huddled— jajaja—
like chipmunks— around a phone

When slender, black and white
stripes cut through the herd
to fold procured and precious finds
I see a paintbrush peek a proud
head out of her handbag

The whir of electricity fades— softener seeps
into summer air— one by one we each depart—
between the wafts there is more than
cleaning— more than healing— we have
the redeeming of our vestiges of life

Before I pull away, my headlights spot a
supine figure on pavement, his name is Suliman—
zzzing— still home-dreaming— in his trenchcoat—
his haircut new since winter